Finding a Rhythm
by teceraca
Summary: A series of drabbles based on Robin and Inigo's relationship. Mostly from Robin's perspective. Implied Henry!Inigo. [M rating only for slight gore in Chapter 10. The other chapters are T rated.]
1. Question

Inigo turns his nose up in stubborn opposition to facing her, "You may ask a question; I may choose not to answer it."

Bemoan all the passings of supposedly witless women he may like; Inigo is just such a _snake_ himself. Whether parrying with a weapon or skirting the edge of accusation, he dances around the subject _far_ too carefree for Robin's tastes. Were only his _mind_ as quick and graceful as his tongue and sword. (But, no. It lingers behind like a child alone in the sandbox. No consideration for others, too wrapped up in himself to **share**.)

Barely an inch above him, she yet pivots on her heel and _looms._ Proud shoulders squeeze back in an aura of tension bigger than the both of them. Brows furrow so deep that her gaze darkens even without the shade of any hood.

" _You are_ _ **infuriating**_ _…!"_

Hands _snap_ out with the force of her anger, snatching at blue lapels, bringing Inigo in, nearly nose-to-nose. Fine, fine. She will _ask,_ then, "Did you… _Seriously_ … invite a **thief** … into _**my**_ camp?" Thoron expertise shows clearly in the jagged flashing conjured within brown eyes. Purpose plays at paralyzing him in place. She leaves no room for slinking excuses or side-glancing lies, lest all this hard-earned - _and now missing -_ inventory come out of his salary; with only the offer of extra chores to reline his pockets. That would keep him out of trouble for awhile, at least, yes?

So he _**will**_ answer.

And he should do so

… _carefully_.


	2. Approach

"If beauty were time, you'd be an eternity," a smooth, masculine voice drifts across the tent right as Inigo enters. He wastes no time jumping right to the flirtations; it's practically how he says _hello_.

"Ah, Ingio~" Robin has become so accustomed to his near-daily flattery, she finds herself losing any immediate prickling at the approach of bouncing platinum blonde bangs tossed in confidence and would-be wooing tone. The uncharacteristic sing song to her voice and refusal to even stop her work and look up to acknowledge him answers with as much _insincerity_ as she believes to have been offered, "Wouldn't that mean being part of a string of _several **seconds**_?"

(Though truth be told, there are scant _few_ who ever approach her in this manner, and to hear it sends a thrill up her spine which straightens shoulders regardless of intent… Not that she's _started_ buying into it.)

"…What can I do for you today?" While she's expecting the usual invitation to tea, his demeanor instead drops like the soft pat of arms at his sides.

"Robin, I need your help with something. I need your knowledge on a tome-which would be the easiest to start with."

"I hear Laurent has a collection of small novelty spells," the suggestion rolls recklessly off Robin's tongue before her quill even sets down; wrought by the disappointment in assuming that he's looking for an easy parlour trick to impress the next crowd of ladies he finds.

She's about to assert as much, but when she _does_ stop her writing to finally make eye contact, she finds a brown gaze rusted over - rather than his usual pristine and gleaming facade. It looks far more genuine than she's used to from him, not that she really had any other instance to compare… Hmm. Something quite desperate must be clinging to him. She sheathes a sharp tongue for a moment and narrows her own eyes. This, _one,_ quite specific instance, she supposes, may warrant benefit of the doubt. For perhaps the connection he seeks to make _here_ is moreso with **his father**. Well, if Inigo's willing to take _something_ serious, then she's willing to _pay attention_. He's given a once over, _scrutiny_ from tactician to solider. There's no recollection of him wielding anything but a sword, and yet already she maps out new possibilities and formations, considers supplies and budget for re-classing, should his effort prove fruitful.

When her mind returns to the present, and her focus to his face, a gentler addition is made to prior comment, "They're all from different periods and different schools of magic, so if nothing else, they'd run a good gamut for testing reactivity to any latent proficiency. I'd... be happy to offer you some lessons if you're truly hoping to learn."


	3. Battle

"If you're lucky, you die last," Inigo huffs as his battle stance drops, resting while he joins her in the brief reprieve of finding cover.

 _Lucky? That sounds_ _ **terrible**_ _._

Fighting until one's last breath. Every muscle strained too tight and thought worn to a frayed thread and passion bled out to a slow trickle. Watching every comrade fall in the same sorry, slumped state trying to hold their dignity and their organs intact when it's finally no longer enough. _They weren't enough, and you weren't enough,_ and whether it's the same battle or ones before which brought everything building til now, having to _**live**_ with that and carry shoulders high right until the final point. To bear the last hope of success, knowing there's no one else after to carry on, and all that you didn't want for the world has conquered you to overtake it…

….or is that just one of her worst nightmares skewing what she hears?

Perhaps he means being the last to _live._ Winning and moving on, and passing after a life completed… and filled with _survivor's guilt?_ That doesn't sound any less lonely.

Being the last, though. At the very least - it would mean _**no more after**_. That part would be alright.

She may never know what he means, quipping something clever over his shoulder while two sets of brown eyes scan from either side of their makeshift log trench. Sword hand clenched around a hilt, she cannot tell if his voice is laced with determination or sarcasm, or if it dances with some delusional manner of protection in her direction. If there _is_ something deeper, she's learned to wait; to continue to observe, and let him divulge in his own time, rather than dig where she's unsure of what she'll find.

So she retorts with equal wit, and greater honesty, knotting her words with reassurances on either end.

"And if you're _really_ lucky, you die **FIRST** at the same time."


	4. Misery

"I don't think I could be more miserable…" Inigo sighs.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

Robin speaks before taking in the situation, exuding typical confidence that she's all aware; surely a simple plague from any of the _usual_ rejections or failures forever biting at him everywhere but, apparently, his tongue. Still busying herself shoving papers into books, the crinkles of which perhaps cover the depth of Inigo's sigh. Either way, the greater the statement, the more minute the offense; _that_ much she's learned. Any _**real**_ hurts he keeps as perfectly tucked away as platinum curls behind his ear.

She faces front, expecting expectant blinking from a body draped over whatever the furniture piece of choice would be for today, but…

"Ah…" tone of voice drops with her arms, now matching slumped shoulders and wrinkled clothes doing their best to hang on.

He _doesn't_ perform; he **barely** stands. He looks like a different person, like she's seeing him for the very first time. Imploding in on himself, holding broken bits together with nothing but the splintering husk of a beat up body on too-long misused legs. Rigid and rock bottom.

The statement hadn't been an exaggeration.

And all Robin _knows now_ , is how she's added to that misery. The last ray of hope - a bit of tear-laden brown glinted at **her** through the dark mask of a slouched head and flat, low-hanging bangs - fades to the sound of lips parting for a hiccuping gasp like a final breath. _He's a mess._ The full force of his feelings has far more impact than anything he'd played at pretending about; a blow to the chest that shakes her heart heavy enough to sink and splash into her stomach; enough to question whether she ever _had one_ to begin with. (Looking back, it may have been the first step in realizing how he'd gained control of it just so). He… hadn't been wrong in understanding how overwhelming his true self could be. A personality that begged to be shared, more of a presence than could ever be contained to any single tent.

Beyond rejected: _dejected_ , he turns on his heel. _Unwanted, unworthy_ , he'd **cried** wolf one too many times, even if they'd _**all**_ hurt. He shouldn't have bothered.

"Wait…"

Robin wouldn't let him walk away thinking it, wouldn't let him take one more step to kick up dust outside and all alone in the crowd. Refined reflexes make an unrefined grab to gather tunic fabric in a fist at the scruff of his back. With a little bracing and preparation, she can bear whatever weight anyone wants to share the burden of, anyone who is willing to open up. It's her duty.

And her honor.

"Please… tell me what's wrong, Inigo. …If you can forgive my thoughtless comment. Maybe I can help."


	5. Massage

Robin _loves_ when she can manage three things in one effort.

She tends to an injury (of the muscle fatigue type - gods forbid Inigo ever **admit** to one where flesh might have rent in weakness. Rather, skin is solid beneath his shirt beneath her hands, and it is in the contrary action of breaking things deeply hidden that she heals.) He receives indirect, altruistic attention which should soothe both spirit along with his body… and she gets the catharsis of jamming her thumb deep under his shoulder blade or wrapping her hands around his neck for each time he's ever run his mouth at her.

If he winces and whines, well that just means it's working. Another knot dispersed.

Rubs and squeezes make for a mindless act, which typically means hers begins to meditate. For all the qualms she might have about Inigo as a man, she has always appreciated him as a soldier. He fights with strength, skill, and mental stamina at the top of the ranks. Coupled with the internalized influence of his mother's sensitive compassions and his father's fearsome savagery, respectively as necessary - he has,

 _surprisingly_ ,

 **on the battlefield at least,**

…become someone she _**trusts**_.

Perhaps it is part of why she feels responsible for taking care of him in this way, for what her generation failed to do in his future, and the effect her directions inflict upon him now.

A proper massage irritates. It pulls and adds pressure; causes redness and inflammation; forces further tension which only relaxes at a later point. Common etiquette dictates that a more cooling, gentle action signals the end of the session and encourages sensations into the second stage. So when Robin rests palms delicate at the top of his back, nudges down the edge of his collar with her chin, noses her way through ashen blonde strands, and presses soft lips to the edge of his hairline, it is… merely _procedure_ , you understand.

"If I'm overworking you on the front lines, please don't be too proud to speak up. I'm afraid I may have started relying too heavily upon having your judgement available out where new orders take longer to reach."


	6. Smooch

Everyone knew better than to be a bother to Robin.

Not when it's still mid-morning. Not when so many open books rustle pages, leaning askew atop each other next to a map. Not when runes sit charging, a gentle hum vibrating up from the bitter earth by her feet. Not when her hand scribbles a quill furiously over parchment, ink so fresh and prominent one could smell the iron of it. Not the day before a battle.

But a little brush of lips in bypass _never_ would be. Not from him.

She understands he's not trying to **steal** anything now, nor take up too much time. It's: _hello_. _just checking in. letting you know I'm thinking about you before my next move. (_ _letting you know i care while i can because who knows what might happen tomorrow.)_

And even if he should go right on to smooch someone else the same… Doesn't she feel these same sentiments for all the shepherds and townsfolk too? Hah, let him carry the message then. She accepts the gesture as quietly as it is given, lithe fingers not missing a letter.

But a grin breaks through the middle of her work; daring enough to believe what _might_ be **UNIQUE** is how each time Inigo's kiss touches her cheek, it seems to be creeping ever closer to the corner of her own lips…


	7. The L Word

"I love you!" Inigo all but shouts into Robin's tent.

Ears prick to attention. Delivered with cheer, perhaps even - _**heart**_ , these words yet **sting**. So Robin had seen some different sides to Inigo; tolerated - nay, even _enjoyed_ his company a time or two, at least since he'd shown himself to be of more substance than might and mirth.

It hasn't made her **STUPID**.

One doesn't just _drop by_ to toss such words into a tent! **Friends** don't use _that phrase_. …Do they?

No, she convinces herself. She is convenient. Simply the only other in flickering candlelight left awake - after a long day of him singing this same song to other ladies, no doubt. That he finally heeds some of her advice here and there hardly makes her **special**.

It _**has**_ , somehow, made her **DIZZY**.

Why should she _care_ if she is? Does she _want_ to be? Nothing about the flutter she feels at his flattery makes _sense_ , and it only stews to spin into paining _madness._ These are **not** the type of possibilities she cares to _distract_ herself with; not scenarios she dares to envision the outcome of.

And yet his damn, stubborn, **challenging** voice constantly seems to call her there. Emotions become just another enigma she can't help but unravel. In it's own way, it's… exciting.

Soles shuffle, attempting to root further into the ground below. Her fingers tighten around the leather cover they hold. She doesn't want to see his stupid grin and pretty face peeking into her flap (stars floating in background accent as though he willed it for a performance). She doesn't want to _know_ if there is half-sincerity shining in his features at the trail end of his trilling.

A burning face stays hidden behind her book. If she gives no invitation to entry, doesn't even dignify him with a look, maybe he'll just go away. Embarrassment spits out more like angry embers, but a good ear could hear the crumble of it.

"Don't MOCK me, Inigo…!"


	8. Night

Sharing pitch darkness with another person is not something Robin is really accustomed to. She's sure Inigo understands, if not feels just the same - even tender touches can jump frayed nerves to unpleasant attention while living a nomad's life, never knowing what to expect from constantly changing surroundings except that something out there is most certainly waiting, if not _trying_ to kill you.

Nor, are either of them really accustomed to being in bed after dark, yet before midnight, but.

 _Well_.

So here they lie, face to face on one pillow, even if they (still lick lips in remembrance of the taste, but) can't so much as see the color of the other's skin. Tangled ankles and pressed foreheads beneath tousled hair and sheets make a safe space where they know every sound is naught but a loving one.

Currently, she listens to breathing, the soft twilight of rest just short of surrendered to sleep. A little Robun snoot goes burrowing forward to find a nearby Inig-nose and nuzzles upon the touch of warm skin. Now properly in position, her head tilts to place a gentle peck upon his lips, and then pulls away. No response. A second hit upon the mouth she marks, however, and she feels it spreading into a smile. A third has his arm draped over the curve of her waist reviving to pull her in. She lingers in soft passion and unworded, but certainly spoken _I love yous._ Merely to tempt him, for when she pulls away **now** , it's all too predictable that he'll trail her like an addict; her mouth like any other bottle, the conduit for his drug of choice, _insatiable infatuation_.

Withholding, he's all too easy to dodge as sleepy senses flounder in the dark and whisper silver-tongued pleas, and even as he chases the occasional flicker of bright blonde or the bubble burst of a giggle, she keeps away and revels in _his_ pressure rising. Withdrawal does terrible things to a man. It's only a matter of time before those finely toned legs use all of their grace to give her a well-earned _shove_ from the comfort of covers.

It's debatable who's the bigger brat, really.

Inigo petulantly pouting after kicking someone out of their own cot.

Or Robin yanking all the blankets down in her tumbling, and laughing at him so richly it would surely wake the neighboring tent.


	9. Away Missions

Robin knows how to work with what _is_. She can predict what is to come, and rearrange what might be, and twist the rhythm of any flow to match her own beat.

She's less familiar with the feeling of _not there_. A bare desk; dissipated odors; an empty palm; friendly words not spoken, even when there had once been a time she would have begged for a minute of quiet rather than suffocate in the silence. Pages feel blank no matter how many times she reads them, for her mind is occupied with other thoughts and anxieties, cluttered by the space of what's _**missing**_.

Endless responsibility keeps her body busy. Time still exists for her to fill up with whatever she can get her hands on. A task list checks off while days count down. Days until those hands can seek out what she truly wishes to hold.

In her pacing, she sees Inigo returning down the camp pathway, safe and sound. Perhaps, finally, she appreciates how to have not ...for tomes and weapons fall from her carry on the spot, clanging and fluttering to the ground. Her heart leaps! Like the skip in her step to run and greet him! The menial and the meaningless are left behind with no remorse, for right now, no project or person is more important than he.

Gaining report of the mission could wait.

Gathering him up into her arms cannot.

Pulling him close, crashing them together at the shoulders with fingers threading through blond strands to hold him to the crook of her neck - every contact communicates how happy she is, even before a smile and the smallest of giggles voices it, "Welcome home, Inigo."

Affection releases only briefly to bring her hood up. Touch resumes with a grasp at each side of his jaw - leverage to bring his lips in to meet hers for a little peck within fabricated shadows followed by a whisper, _"I missed you."_

He doesn't even have to chase for another kiss, and another; one for every empty hour without him. How torturous she'd learned it to be: to end every embrace knowing there would be more, yet having to wait for them. Oh, but Inigo would always find Robin patiently waiting, for they are together, and that is the promise - once and one more will never be enough. She will wait, come the occasions when it is his turn to leave; she will bear the lonely and the nothing until Inigo's tastes and scents and words and kisses come back.

He is worth every moment, and she would settle for _nothing_ less.


	10. Home Missions

Plans are always fashioned to keep minimal casualties regardless of side. Humanity comes in initial consideration. Once predictions start running smoothly, and with innocents out of the way, Robin is no longer planner, but **enforcer**. She never kids herself; once _**combat** _begins, it is _us_ and _them,_ and every enemy is a THREAT to those dutiful first figures. Until victory or retreat calls,

those obstacles are to be _**eliminated** without mercy_.

But (though Plegian dunes near _beg_ to have lives sink beneath) there are **so many** of _them_. Even as her full attention is enamored by bright Elfire inflaming from her fingertips to ignite the ruffian in front of her, leaving the bitter waft of burning flesh to consume her senses, she _hears_ a cry of "Look out…!" and then a heavy thump from behind.

A clear fact recognized by now - she's comfortable focusing on her tomes, because it is **_Inigo's_** sword by her side. Before looking, she knows his work is what _protected_ her. She turns just in time to see the weapon raised over his head in the kickback of yanking it out from pierced lungs. How many times has she had t at soldiers, _Don't **hesitate** , lest they recover…! _Even Chrom, fierce as he could be, always wore a frown when he would strike. She worried someday she'd have to say it to him too; would lose too many precious seconds in the convincing.

But never Inigo.

He needed no direction when it _mattered_. He stands there, blade dripping entrails to mat down blonde hair, his boot holding a still-squirming she (which had tried to stab _her_ in the back) as she bleeds out. He shoots a grin off, smug and strong even as ruptured arteries spit to splash armor with red-black body fluids; every splatter upon his being is blood that **_doesn't_ **belong to _their own_.

Teeth grit, and knuckles go white to snap shut a hard cover; Robin grimaces in self-directed disgust, but

 _…Dammit all_ , he's never looked more **DASHING**.

So when he wanders over, for once hardly concerned with appearances, and asks, "Are you alright…?"

Rather than shouting _I could kiss you_ , she'll simply **do it**. Leather pushes through soft, shifting terrain and the into his arms. She leans in, meshing whatever soilings they've gathered _together_ and infiltrates the opening of his collar. A parched tongue laps up salt and sand as it glides over an adam's apple to his chin. Her caress follows it along, still wet droplets into crimson streaks to stain tan-color skin. She indulges a side of herself ultimately reserved for, understood by, **only him**. It might just be a trick of the desert sunset, but when lashes flutter, irises beneath burn with a burst of _Grimleal grape_.

 **To hell with ribbons tied to hilts** , Robin will _mark **her**_ chosen one with smeared fingerprints and the oxidizing silhouette of a **hand** around his **neck** ; contours coat in their covenant of combined conquest. Teeth nip along a jawbone next, pinching along a rounded, graceful line.

(She's still breathing, and still full of fight, is the intended communication. That should suffice as answer to his question.)

Breath is hot in his ear when she reaches the end of the trail; chest pressed so forcefully into him she can feel his heartbeat, and laments the inability to tell whether his EXCITEMENT is _for her_ , or merely a remnant of battle high.

"Hee hee!" Inigo _so_ brings the bubbly out of her… Lips still tease in smile over his lobe as they, and her body, begin a shameless pass to move onward. Almost a pity that there is work yet left to do. Fingers brush down through thin grime of a sleeve and over their half blue counterparts in lingering affection. Tingling all over, she's ready for more and can only wish the same for him.

 _Another wave is coming soon._

 ** _Don't stop._**


	11. Injury

Inigo fusses back at Robin's fussing, trying to swat her away from assessment, "It's not so bad, honest! I'll be walking again by tomorrow. Sheeh, you're acting like my father. A sprain hasn't ever stopped me before."

Whether it happened showing off to an invisible audience in practice, or to impress a bar-brawl crowd, Robin doesn't need nor care to know. Accidents happen, and attempting to take away free-time causes of it would only lead to a different set of troubles from the troops. Still, a visit to the med tent is the last wish on her list when trying to prepare for battle in less than two day's time. She can't help but sound fretted when having to unexpectedly provide a readiness assessment to one of her best fighters (and one she's rather fond of).

"It never stops anyone, **UNTIL IT DOES**."

Grave warning yet falls flat and matter-of-fact from frowning lips. To continue saying anything harsher he would too easily take as a _challenge_. No, she kneels with a critical gaze focused only his ankle, and delivers cold truth in passing with a warm touch to the bandages there. [Not a **cast** , and vital energy flow isn't _horribly_ disrupted. He's not sugarcoating for pride's sake.]

She'll _have_ to trust a dancing soldier's sense of footing. He _should_ be fine, but even with something little - one wrong twist is all it would take to take him down; they both know it.

She stands, with fingers and thumb spread open across her forehead. An imaginary terrain appears behind closed lids, the picture of Walhart's factions, and where they tend to place their axe wielders. Pitting him against slow movers that strike high gives him the best chance to not even have to block, and a wide, two-footed stance that would absorb mostly into arms and knees if he did.

"I'm not pulling you from anything, just asking you to be aware of temporary _limits_."

A furrowed brow and vein pulsing behind a clenched jaw makes clear her disappointment and frustration, but it's all inward turned. She only lifts her eyes to meet his before leaving, because the constant, looming possibility of never seeing someone again wins out over the shame that tells her she's not worthy to. _To claim love for someone_ and yet consciously send them into danger is the highest atrocity…!

But she's always known that someone like her doesn't have the luxury of placing any one person's importance as higher than the whole objective.

"So you better be right, because I'll still be counting on you."

…

It's like ripping out one of her own ribs.


	12. Dance

"Gods, what's wrong with me!" Robin cries, fists pounding the floor.

"There's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you, darling," Inigo assures, shaking his head and holding out a hand.

It had been a semi-rhetorical question, shouted in a huff from the floor after too many mis-steps. _Frustration doesn't sit well on her pretty features_ , so he's told her more than once, and in such spirit tunes down a glib tongue to instead give encouragement through disturbed dust in the air for Robin to get back on her feet.

Inigo means it too, she can see in the shine of brown eyes, looking down _to_ her without looking down _on_ her. He simply appreciates that she's humoring him in trying to learn this dance - however ungraceful and rigidly precise she may remain, in stark defiance of more fluid movements.

(Ugh, watching her fall may have been the most entertaining part about it…)

And _she_ has a sudden appreciation for why he feels the need to sometimes **HIDE**. Gods know, Robin would be mortified were anyone to see all her scrapped maps and second, third, fourth attempt plans with irreconcilable casualties and notes that weren't even from the right category (oops). These things are a process, and she understands now - there's nothing _squandering_ about only wanting a final product to be seen.

And it's true; there's also nothing wrong with the process of **learning**.

"Ah…" lips part for a jaw to hang partway open just a little too long; _embarrassment_ slows her movements, both from screwing up **and** from still being accepted, despite. It burns pink beneath skin on the apples of her cheeks, "You're right, of course."

There are few Robin would let see her falter, perhaps why it took her so long to practice this skill in the first place. But she knows it would never be in Inigo's nature to let a lady dwell with a frown, consumed by her own failures. So she picks herself up and brushes herself off, unafraid, "Not that I'm… er, without any faults, far from it, just that… there's nothing wrong… right now."

She's always required and respected a patient, gentle hand, capable of holding her rough edges and helping her move forward. From the first time he'd offered an arm, and she'd taken it, she knew she always would. Always would take it, always would rely on it, always would treasure it… always would let it lead her through things, like any good dance partner, when she doesn't understand.

So once more he holds himself out with a smile, and once more she smiles back and layers her fingers with his. Palm to palm and shoulder to shoulder they stand.

"Ahem… So then, let's try it again, yes?"


	13. Soleil

With the elimination of Grima for good, many went their separate ways for well-earned new lives. Robin - choosing to follow in search of a recently disappeared Inigo, knowing Chrom and his new kingdom had been fine for awhile without her, and would continue along the right path towards a more lasting peace. In truth, with enough gate jumping, connections to Annas all over, and her fated penchant for being _drawn into wars_ , Nohr hadn't been terribly hard to find.

Perhaps they should have known better, settling into a whole new world and era - that things might turn out… a **little** different in this future's present, but missing their own young man Morgan so much made Robin and "Laslow" so excited to see him again upon Robin announcing her pregnancy. So… the castle healers following up an initial assessment with _it's going to be a girl_ made mouths drop in surprise.

Now, here they sit, nonetheless ecstatic with a baby bundled up in a frilled jumper and blanket, with soft, twisted pink curls poking out from around a marshmallow face. **Soleil** , the light of their lives (as Laslow had exclaimed as soon as seeing such an enchanting remembrance of his mother), and the breaking dawn of a new day which Robin had always sought to achieve.

"May I hold her?" Princess Corrin requested during a summoned visit.

"Of course you may," though reluctant to ever let the girl out of her arms, a kiss on the forehead tells both that it will be alright, and she places her gently down into the new limb-created cradle Corrin extends. There's not reason the woman wouldn't deserve a turn. Fed, burped, napped, and well spoiled in attention by her father, Soleil should be content to be passed around and just kick her feet and grab at new people's fingers for at least, oh… half an hour before getting too fussy.

It's not as if Corrin hadn't been through this process a few times already with other members of the army, but still, allow Robin room to gush, "Isn't she just a _**joy**_?"


	14. Morgan

Babies grow so fast, even while they're still babies. Once Inigo and his animated attentions were all a newborn Morgan could desire. Barely able to recognize anything but changes in light and shapes and the sound of a cheerful voice, all that dazzling excitement kept him entertained and happy. Soleil never seemed to grow out of it, but… Morgan could no longer be consoled at times.

"He doesn't want me. He wants _you_!" Robin can hear Inigo's frustration of feeling like he's done something wrong, even if he hasn't. The old ways don't work, _he_ doesn't work. It seems a mother's touch is finally coming into play, and (though he knows better) it makes father feel inferior. Inigo holds the crying mess of a child out to her by the waist, secure but looking practically about to be disowned. He'll just go play tea party with Soleil some more, then. Not that he didn't have the patience for a crying son, but why _bother_ when they're both forced to agree on what Morgan **really** wants.

He is older only by a scatter of months, but already becoming his own person. All of the spinning and bouncing and cheers in the world - all of Inigo's specialties - just won't do. Well, studying had her total attention for a _little_ while today. There's compromise still to be had as she accepts the bundle into loving arms and holds him steady and secure. A few strokes from the back of her fingers down chubby cheeks soothe with _"shh.. shh…"_ s

(She's not so anxious holding their second child as she was with the first, and that helps too.)

When tears dry and squirming settles, she sits Morgan gently in her lap. A single arm around him, he shifts weight with the tiniest, contented back and forth as she begins to read to him (the other hand will just have to do both the grabbing of a pen and the turning of pages now). It never mattered the book - children's tale or strategy. He simply seemed to enjoy the dulcet tones of his mama reading to him.

Even if Inigo cannot provide something himself, there is profound parenting skill in seeing what _can_ , and being willing to let go enough for it to happen. A gentle smile curves in her husband's direction in hopes of reminding him. _(Look at us! All of us! A family!_ _ **Together!**_ _)_

Morgan still **NEEDS** them both, even if, sometimes (in the _tremendously overwhelming_ world of being a baby) what he **wants** is Robin's calm for awhile.


	15. First Steps

"Robin! Morgan took another step! Come quick you have to see this!"

The urgent calling of her name sets her spine immediately upright, hand tensing around her quill. A deep breath and the twist of her neck to look out the wooden frame of the study (within her _home_ ) calms the sudden yank of anxiety still sparking over Robin's nerves. Reasons demanding her away from work these days are much less **terrifying** , yet just as _thrilling_. Warm excitement in her husband's voice keeps her heart pounding and legs ready to carry her away for much more pleasant purpose.

(But she _has_ to finish this report to Flavia _**tonight**_.)

Ink still sketches on parchment, even as she stands. One more line and one more step missed. _But not the whole moment._ Inigo dotes on their children when she cannot, and through the years has always found a way to pull her from the recesses of workaholism before becoming totally lost in dusty pages. (How had she ever _lived_ without him?)

 _Enough, that's enough._ Boyish giggles ring through the halls, and she's not even sure which one of two it's coming from. Scurrying into the living room, poor Morgan almost loses his center when mother comes into sight and looking over breaks his concentration. Chubby little limbs wiggle, and she swears his tiny baby brow bends beneath white blonde bangs, as he tries with every ounce of his might to steady them again.

Slowly, she begins moving, too, stepping in behind Inigo, and matching his crouch down to their child's level. Hands glide to settle over his shoulders, fingers tracing along scarred-over claw marks currently covered by clothes. This is everything they've ever fought for. A world where their little one's only fight is to stand from his blanket and toddle over to see his papa. One who is _present_ , and mama, too.

"Come now, Morgan. You can do it! Just take your time. We'll be _right here,_ " they exchange proud smiles, even as Robin's turns to an understanding pout.

Balance is a difficult thing to learn.

 _One foot in front of the other…_ Something Inigo would sing to him while dancing simple circle steps with the boy in his arms. Heh, he's certainly listening to 'dada' now. Could those little sausages ever become dancing legs? Or is he reaching for the book he'd been having read to him?

Is he trying to follow either of them in his first footsteps right now? Or plodding his very own path? Not that it matters; he's being so brave already! Cheeks hurt from being raised so high. Husband and wife squeeze hands while their son keeps squeezing all those newly developing muscles. They hold each other back from trying to catch him with every wobble. He'll be alright, he's making it happen. They're just there to share in making the memory, with shared thoughts.

 _Look at Morgan!_

 _He can walk!_


End file.
